John Milton(1608–1674)
On the Late Massacre in Piedmont
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold,
Even t h e m who kept thy truth so pure of old
W h e n all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,7
Forget not: in thy boo k record their groans
W h o were thy sheep a n d in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody P i e d m o n t e s e that rolled
M o t h e r with infant down the rocks. Their m o a n s
T h e vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heaven . Thei r martyred blood an d ashe s sow
O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway
T h e triple tyrant:8 that f r o m these may grow
A hundredfold, who having learnt thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.9
1673